


Backstab, Fireball, Lawbreaker, Nonsense

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Humor, Make-up, Pop Culture, YouTube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 02:39:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10527111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: He had a decent number of followers, not to brag. Well, it wouldn't be bragging, it would be the truth.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tvsn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tvsn/gifts).



“I know some of you, total heathens! prefer the Tarte Buffer Airbrush Finish Bamboo Foundation brush but you will not, I repeat, will not, get the same coverage as with the Ulta retractable Kabuki brush. I don’t care what finishing powder you use,” Clayton said, staring fixedly into the camera.

The mirror was perfectly angled to catch his careful gestures, the way he bent his wrist and the elegant swoop of the cosmetic across his cheekbone. The color palettes, the basic Sephora set and his preferred Urban Decay design-your-owns were carefully arrayed along with the make-up wipes in their monogrammed cover. He’d been recording for six hours now, getting by with Red Bull and Dr. Pepper in a cocktail Anne called Bullshit, not ironically after tasting it the once, and he knew he was supposed to wrap up if they were going to meet for sushi and karaoke. Byron was only coming for the karaoke, which was good because he ate like a monster. Clay despised Jed Foster but he couldn’t fault the man for refusing to share a meal with Byron; it simply wasn’t enough to off-set the million other flaws the man had, not least of which had been the pitying look in his eyes when he realized Clay used make-up. His girlfriend Mary-Elizabeth, who must also believe in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, since she believed Foster’s divorce would come through and she’d end up with a big, white, poufy wedding before her every last egg shriveled, at least had asked whether Clay thought NARS was worth the hype since she was still paying off her student loans on her social worker’s salary. He had graciously told her just to spring for the Orgasm cream blusher, wickedly adding she should ask Jed to take care of it for her since it fell under his job description, and he’d watched her try to decide if she was amused or offended. She’d kept her distance since the time he gave her a head massage without quite asking her if she’d wanted it, but at least she’d taken his advice about the make-up. 

“Oi, Clay! This century?” Anne called from the door. She’d lived in Liverpool for about seven months when she was fourteen, but she’d never given up on the accent and he had to give her credit for that. And her preference for dominatrix boots worn with anything. He’d helped her fix the terrible dye job she’d gotten at the beauty school and made her promise never to cheap out that way again. They were best friends.

“That, gentle watchers, can only be Anne telling me to wrap it up. So, to recap: don’t miss out on the 40% off sale on the Sephora site but forget about the lip glosses. Don’t bother to put anything on your face if you don’t have a fan brush. Moroccan oil can fix anything. And to be a little throw-back, stay tuned for my next podcast…or don’t. I couldn’t give a flying, well, you know, darlings.”

“Just let me check Twitter and we can get out of here,” Clay said in his slightly more normal voice.

“Can’t you do that from the Uber?” Anne whined. She’d perhaps gone a little overboard with the sequins but she had the attitude to carry it off.

“O. M. G. He did not, that utter….” Clay said, peering at the latest alternative-fact tweet, racking his brains to think of the perfect response that would get retweeted immediately.

“Clay. We have reservations. And this is the place with the peach tart cocktail, with the schnapps and the marzipan powder,” Anne reminded him.

“Fine. For you. But don’t expect me to pay any attention to you until I’ve had two,” he replied, brushing away a stray piece of glitter from under his eye, taking care not to ruin the layers of cosmetic over his scar.

“You never do. That’s when I flirt with the busboy,” she said. She didn’t bother to wink. It was implied.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a wild, weird escapade that was tvsn's dream come true. It abounds with wacky pop culture references and (I hope) a sort of dry, dark humor. The title is the names of Urban Decay's Vice Nocturnal lipsticks.


End file.
